


So maybe I wanted to give you something more

by crookedspoon



Series: Just give me what I came for [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Come Sharing, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, POV Ronan Lynch, POV Second Person, Recreational Drug Use, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 21:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11953275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: "Here's the deal, sweetheart, since I'm in a generous mood: Whatever you want me to do to you, I'll do it. All you have to do is say it out loud."





	So maybe I wanted to give you something more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taeru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taeru/gifts).



> Written for wipweek day #4 "Any WIP" and 53. “I’ll do _anything_ you want me to do to you, but you have to say it out loud.” from [this list ](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/160126800845/thread-starters-kink-edition).
> 
>  ~~Another case of barely sliding in on time and not having had the chance to edit because of it. I wrote this on my tablet because my backup laptop likes to overheat, just to warn you that there might be weird typos and stuff along the way.~~ Should be fixed.

Kavinsky is shrouded in a cloud of smoke, like a genie from a fucking lamp, when he makes you the offer.

"Here's the deal, sweetheart, since I'm in a generous mood: Whatever you want me to do to you, I'll do it." Noises from the movie screen fill the silence that follows, as he takes a showy drag from his cigarette, just to give the statement a moment more to work inside you. "All you have to do is say it out loud."

His voice, despite the contents of his words, has a reassuring effect on you. It's something to focus on, something to actively dislike. It shifts your attention away from the tightening of your skin.

For the past hour or so you've been stewing in your own uncomfortable desire, sitting next to him on one of the generous theater seats, knees touching and hands close enough to, but Kavinsky's are never still. They're playing with the lighter, flick it open or closed. They're fiddling with an empty cigarette pack, until it's just a mountain of paper shreds.

You are that cigarette pack.

"Sound good?"

You meet his eyes for what feels like the first time that night. They are glassy like a reflection on a smooth, undisturbed surface, and his smile is like water, liquid-soft at first but able to erode you with time. 

You're suspicious, as you should be. Like any genie, he is untrustworthy, but this has never been about trust. This has been about getting off, for him more than for you. You're in it for a host of other reason, not all of them clear to you. 

Still, there must be a catch; Kavinsky doesn't do shit for free. Even if it's just his own sick enjoyment he's getting out of it, there's always something. What could it be this time? Another power trip, that's for sure.

_I like to see you beg._

Yeah, he certainly does.

You try it for a second, if just to humor him. 

You settle back in your seat, cross your arms in front of you and think about what you'd like this scrawny slip of a boy to do to you right this moment. Put like this, after you had a chance to cool down from your initial street race, it's not very compelling. Oh, sure, you still want a great many things, some from him even, but here's the rub. You want them the same way you've always wanted them: taken from you, wordlessly, a negotiation of intense gazes, venturing digits, and an inquisitive tongue.

For a drug addict, Kavinsky is surprisingly perceptive. He can read you like an open book, and he always delivers.

It's what you hate, being this transparent, but it's also why you're here. So you don't have to think about what you want, but get to experience it anyway. Struggling against what he has in mind is part of the appeal to you.

He taps your forehead when you don't say anything in a while.

"Don't just sit there fantasizing. Let's hear it." 

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he blows smoke into your face.

You scowl, and not only because he made you remember one of your favorite stories from when you were a kid – again. 

You scowl because you're nowhere near drunk enough for this. You think of collars, of leashes, the rattle of chains, but you can't put any of it in words. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, your stomach clenching. Your fingers dig into the armrest between you, so they wouldn't dig into his thigh. Some part of you wishes it were his thigh, though. It could serve as a distraction, this gesture of yours, a sign of arousal and possession, and maybe he could be tricked into forgetting all about his current endeavor to humiliate you.

Yes, you want him in a great number of ways, not all of them sexual, but there's no way you can share any of that with him, no matter how titillating it might be. 

There's only one thing you can think of that might not reflect back on you and your unhealthy desires. Instead, it would put the ball smack-dab in the middle of his court. 

You square your shoulders, settle your jaw, and fix him with your most penetrating gaze.

It irks you that it doesn't faze him at all. His eyes don't flicker in the slightest.

"Suck me off," you say finally, with extra bite, a challenge rather than a request.

Kavinsky doesn't move a muscle, although his expression changes and he makes a sound like a deflating balloon.

You expected a reaction like that, but it still annoys you. "Backing out already?"

Kavinsky's laugh starts low in his chest, somewhat unhealthy-sounding, before it comes out as a hissing snigger. "Is that all?" With a dismissive gesture, he drops the butt of his cigarette to the floor and crushes it underfoot. Then he cuffs your arm. "That's so vanilla."

"You gonna do it or what?"

"If that's all you want." Kavinsky shrugs, and it's more expansive than it has any right to be. You drink in the movement of muscles over bone. "Gotta say, I'm a little disappointed. Didn't expect you to squander your chance on this." 

He gets right into your face, fingers clamping onto your knee as if it were the last fixture of his sanity. It might be.

"C'mon, get it up for me," he says and licks his way into your mouth.

You're already lost to the future of his tongue on your dick, lips wrapped oh so prettily around it, and his tongue inside your mouth is what transports you there, a shivering mass of nerves and anticipation.

Your hand follows his instruction even before the rest of your body has registered it, and he withdraws with a pleased grin and a last and lasting flick of his tongue against yours.

You must be flushing scarlet by now. And you'd want to hold him right there, tongue down your throat, lips against yours, breath in your mouth. It tastes as though he's licked an ashtray clean, but it's more about the feel of it, hot and slick and smooth – the culmination of all your childhood wet dreams.

He lifts his hips to get his wallet from his back pocket, and your eyes flutter, because you think of every inch of creamy skin that is as yet hidden beneath his tank top.

Your hand goes faster, so does your breath.

He takes out two credit cards and a bag of white powder. You can almost see where this is going. Part of you resents the fact that he needs to get high for this. 

_Fucking own up to what you are already, asshole._

Another part of you doesn't care at all, as long as he gets on with it. 

He cuts his stuff into a neat line on one of the credit cards, before he looks at you again. Your mouth is hanging open and your eyes burn like a fever.

"Get up," he says, but he's not looking at your face. You're fine with that.

You rise leisurely to your feet, trying not to betray how eager you are for this to happen, and your dick is about level with his head when you stand. You want to rub it against his chin, his cheeks, doesn't matter where, just as long as you come in contact with his skin.

But you wait for him to make the first move.

And it's not what you expect, when it comes. Though you could have imagined.

He runs his index finger along your length, and you shiver all the way, until he crooks it and pulls your erection down. With a curious look on his face, he lets it spring back up.

"This should do," he says, before he tugs it back down to point straight at his face. "Hold this here."

You're confused, but you do.

He takes the laden credit card and scrapes the white powder onto your dick with the other. Huh, so this is happening. You can't say you're disinclined if he ends up going down on you. Whatever fucking works for him.

He plucks a bill from his wallet and rolls it up.

"Ready?" he asks, and it's all the warning you get. He snorts the coke in one go and the pull of cold air on your dick has you going cross-eyed. Fuck, that was something.

His fingers join yours in denying your dick its natural curvature, and then his tongue sears along the length of it and you no longer care about the slight discomfort. This has, after all, been worthwhile. No doubt about it.

You groan as he licks you again and your fingers find their way into his hair, gently, because no matter what, you don't want to spook him. You need this to last.

His tongue flicks at the tip of your dick like a kitten tasting cream. It lasts only a moment before he plunges down, engulfs you in that volcanic cavern of his mouth, and goddamn it, you had no idea it would be like this. You've kissed him plenty of times and you thought you knew how hot his mouth would be, but this is different. This is a whole other level.

This is fucking divine.

He's not even really sucking you off, just sort of moving the closed ring of his lips up and down your length, but God, it's still so fucking good. And you were right, that mouth does look pretty on you.

As if he guessed your thoughts and wanted to ruin them, Kavinsky makes a choked noise at the back of his throat. His shoulder blades jerk.

He pulls back and screws up his face, like he's tasted something sour. "Fuck, this is disgusting."

A hot wave of shame slices down your spine. He didn't need to say it, he could have just done you the favor of sucking you until your vocabulary consisted of nothing more than his name, but he had to do it. 

He had to remind you that he's not doing this because he wants to, because he wants _you,_ but because this is a game to him, because he's bored and he's rising to a challenge. 

It burns inside you, this knowledge that you want him more than he wants you, even as he takes you into his mouth again and makes you forget why you were ever second-guessing this in the first place. You moan, you bite your lips, and you stroke your thumbs across his goddamn cheekbones as if hoping they might cut you.

You could die like this, fingertips brushing his hair, hot breath on your skin, watching him prove how committed to his promise he is, but the way he coughs and stops and heaves is insulting and not much fun to watch.

Except it is, for a meaner part of you, one you haven't dared to explore until now, content to leave yourself in his hands as you were.

Your struggles did get violent sometimes, but you've never flipped the script on him before. You never wanted to.

But now you're pissed. Now you want more than anything for him to stop fucking pretending. If he really didn't want this, he should just stop.

He settles back again for a breather, and makes a show of scrunching up his face and gagging.

You had it with him.

The next time Kavinsky's throat squelches as if he didn't want to be right there, down on his knees, servicing you for all he is worth, you grab his fucking head and you hold him still. 

His eyes go wide as saucers when he can't move, but he doesn't do anything about it yet. He just watches you as you slide the tip of your dick across his tongue, forward and back, a little bit deeper each time because he feels so good, and then he swallows around you and you lose it.

You plunge into him, abuse his mouth, stab the very roadblock he's established at the back of it.

He braces himself against your hips, fingertips sinking into your skin as if to leave a morse code of desire, of helplessness, of ownership. _I was here, and I'll be back. Hold the fort till then._

As if you'd let him, as if you'd let him back in control now that you've tasted what it feels like. 

There's nothing more beautiful than listening to him choke on your dick, than listening to him try to take you. It's the sound of determination.

It's the sound of want.

Shit, he's gorgeous like that, face red, eyes shining but beautifully stubborn, because no matter what, he won't back down. Sure, it seemed like he hated every second of it only a moment ago, but that's gone now, like the vestiges of a distasteful dream.

He's into it now, going down on you with gusto, applying not only his tightly closed lips, but using everything that's available to him – tongue, hands, suction, _fuck,_ even a hint of teeth that makes your toes curl. 

You want to throw him against the backrest and fuck his mouth relentlessly, but you can't move. His moans quiver up your spine and draw it downward under the crushing weight of sensations. Your shoulders tremble and you curl into a question mark, palms still clinging to his burning cheeks, but when he's drawing back slowly as if savoring every last molecule on the surface of your skin, it's his own doing, not yours.

He sucks you back in as far as he can take you and you can't help crying out.

You're flattered, you really are, but more than that, you're coming harder than you could have imagined coming.

You had no idea it could be this way, blinding and scorching and knocking the breath from your lungs. No wonder he liked to shove his dick into your face, if there's a smidgen of a chance you'd blow his brains out. Because he certainly just blew out yours. There's no other way to describe it, and truth be told, you don't care. Who the fuck needs words?

His gaze is all you need, and it doesn't matter if it's the drugs shining out of his eyes, because the admiring, pleased, fucked-out sheen to them has a beauty all their own.

He stares at you through heavy eyelids and his breath clouds hot around your wet length as he lets it slip out of his mouth. You groan. A bit of come dribbles from his lips and he helps it back in with his ring finger. His eyes never once wavered and you find yourself melting into the seat behind you.

You've never seen anything sexier.

You want to believe he's looking at you like that because he wants you, not because he's high, but there's no lie convincing enough to tell yourself. 

Your fingertips stay stuck to him, continue stroking his hair. His eyelids droop lower, before he gets up. It takes some effort and some handholding, but he makes it to his feet. He's as tall as you now that your knees have given out.

And by God, he's so attractive right now that you want to bite yourself.

His palms slide over your shoulders and he kisses you.

Or rather, he seals his mouth against yours and forces something thick and salty into your mouth. You tense, but he won't let up, and really, you should have expected it. This is such a Kavinsky thing to do.

You're inclined to spit, to shove him away, but you don't. You grasp his elbows harder so he won't escape in case he changes his mind, and you wonder why you're not more appalled at this. You're letting him kiss you with your come in his mouth, but all you think about is the feel of his body against yours.

Your hands run up his arms, tighten in his shirt, and when they roam down to his waistband, you're bold enough to grab his ass. He moans against you and your come slips down your chin. Without missing a beat, he sucks it up and spits it back into your mouth, before ravishing you with his own again.

As much as you like that enthusiastic side of him, you're growing tired and your limbs heavy. You need something more comfortable to rest against.

When you hold him at arm's length, already drooping, he's grinning and letting what's left of your come drip from his mouth.

"You're so disgusting, K." It's a statement of fact, not of opinion.

"You liked it," he says and sends a gob of spit to the floor.

"I liked you blowing me okay."

"I take it you wanna do that again." Gel- and sweat-slick bangs are obscuring his eyes and you cannot decipher whether he means it as a challenge or something else.

"Don't you?" Without bothering to pull up your pants, you slip into the seat you occupied before. It's no longer warm.

"Hmm." He taps his chin as if seriously considering the question and sinks down next to you. "One condition."

You let your head loll back. "I thought the condition was that I say it out loud."

Kavinsky's hand is a solid pressure as it slides between your legs. Fuck, does he want to do it again already? Your mouth waters at the thought.

Then you jump.

Pain is piercing your nether regions, sharp and insistent.

You look down. Kavinsky is tugging at your pubes. He's actually tugging at your pubes, of all things.

"I want you to shave it all off," he says and makes you hiss again.

"What the fuck?" You don't know if the flush you feel creeping into your cheeks is anger or embarrassment. "You want me to look like a fucking pre-teen?"

Because that's what Kavinsky looks like. You didn't notice the first time you jacked each other off, because your brain was elsewhere and everything was happening so fast, but once he got buck-naked in front of you, you couldn't help but make fun of him. Fucking boy, pretending to be all grown up but unable to grow a single hair on his ball sack. Probably thinks it makes his dick look bigger.

That boy, however, made you eat your words and ask for more. 

You bite his bruised lips, already imagining them doing many things to you. The memory of his mouth alone is enough to make you ask again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out" by Richard Siken.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm currently stockpiling prompts for the winter, in case you'd like to send me one. (Post [here](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/164609128545/prompts-are-open), prompts tag [here](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/tagged/prompts). Feel free to leave your prompts here if you don't have a tumblr. :D)


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